


higher than soul can hope

by wokeupscully



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Angst, Flashback Structure, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 08:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17956940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wokeupscully/pseuds/wokeupscully
Summary: Tommy takes the food out of Jon’s hands, finds the recipe sheet with ease, and starts taking out everything they’ll need. Jon can’t help but marvel at the easy way that Tommy’s moving around his kitchen, as though he feels right at home here. He’s startled out of his reverie when Tommy kisses him on the forehead, “As much as I’m enjoying you standing around and looking pretty, Favreau, get to work.”He hands Jon the vegetables and a knife that he doesn’t remember ever buying for himself, let alone using. But he takes out a cutting board and gets to work, doing the prep while Tommy does the actual cooking. It’s very domestic, Jon thinks, and it sends warmth radiating through his chest, picturing them doing this down the road, simple and easy and together.Fuck, he’s getting sappy over chopping vegetables.





	higher than soul can hope

**Author's Note:**

> title from e e cummings poem 'i carry your heart with me'
> 
> please keep it secret, keep it safe, don't share this with folks who shouldn't see, y'all know the drill
> 
> huge thanks to maddie who was an endless cheerleader and my beta for this fic and listened to me yell about it more than once. i started this thing last april and only just finished it. it's been a monster. but i hope you guys like it!

"You got over me before though."

Jon says it in a sardonic tone, both disparaging and self-congratulatory at the same time. "And if you can do that, you get over anything, because, really," he says, leaning into the bit, gesturing to himself as though it would have been a Herculean trial to fall out of love with him when he looks so good.   
  
Warmth settles in his chest when he sees Tommy throw his head back with laughter, exactly what he'd intended. They don't - they've never really discussed that time where they were almost something more than the best friends they've managed to be for all these years.   
  
Jon's glad, now, that he can make Tommy laugh with it.   
  
Tommy grabs two beers out of the fridge, and then, in a tone so casual and light for how devastating the words feel as they crash into Jon's chest, says, "Oh please, like anyone has ever truly gotten over Jonathan Favreau."   
  
Jon laughs as well and it isn't as easy or as wholehearted as Tommy's but he hopes that it isn't too noticeable, the way those words are still rattling around in his head, in his heart. It can't - it can't be true. Jon has spent too long looking over at Tommy, watching and waiting and hoping, searching for any sign of this for it to be true.   
  
It's a joke, just like Jon's first reference was. He follows Tommy out of the kitchen and flops down next to him on the couch, close like they always sit. Close enough to feel the brush of each other's things if they move too much while gesticulating - talking about the Red Sox or the Patriots or whatever else is on TV.   
  
"The point I'm making is," Jon continues, picking up the thread - because he is here for a reason that isn't to go through all these emotions outside of the time he sets aside to deal with them enough to keep them in - "The point I'm making is that you're great. And that you'll find someone who's right and who wants what you want."   
  
Tommy’s latest relationship hadn’t been right - thus the beers and the couch and the sports - and Jon doesn’t like the hint of sadness on Tommy’s face. He hadn't thought that Tommy and Rachel were too serious about each other, hadn't thought that she could be the person for him. Tommy hadn't thought so either, but he doesn't like break-ups, doesn't like feeling that he's let someone down.

Jon swallows, his throat tight. He hadn't - he hadn't managed to be that person for him. Perhaps he'd been someone right - he'd understood, obviously, the demands of the White House, he'd understood Tommy's anxieties and fears, he'd seen his grief. It was only that he hadn't - hadn't wanted what Tommy so very much does. He hadn't been ready to commit to someone and not to someone like Tommy, whose devotion and loyalty and attention would all be his if he'd been able to say yes back then.  
  
Jon had simply not been ready for it, for the intensity of loving Tommy. Or for the intensity of being loved by Tommy.   
  
The smile on Tommy's face is sad, the look in his eyes faraway, as though he's replaying a memory. Jon drags his gaze away from the tenderness, the vulnerability that's clear on Tommy's face, not sure if he's meant to be seeing it.   
  
"I thought the point is how hot you are?" Tommy says, pulling himself back with an insincere earnestness in his expression but light in his eyes.   
  
Jon gives him the out. "Yeah, okay, that is at least half the point."   
  
Tommy takes a sip of his beer and Jon resolutely doesn't look at the easy grip of his fingers around the neck of the bottle and he also doesn't look at Tommy's lips wrapping around the opening and he also definitely doesn't follow the line of his throat as Tommy swallows and even if he does, he doesn't have any thoughts about it.

* * *

 

_Jon is tipsy - warm and cozy and happy - as he grabs two beers from the fridge. There’s not much in it other than beer, actually; it’s an unusual occasion when the beer-to-food ratio approaches anything resembling balance here at the flop house. He walks back to the couch where Tommy is gazing absently at the television, but clearly not watching what’s on. Lifting the bottle in front of him to his lips, he drinks the last sip, head tilted back. Jon stares at his neck, watches his throat work as he swallows and can’t pinpoint why he finds that so entrancing. Maybe it’s just the two beers he’s had already._

_Tommy smiles when Jon steps back into the room and so Jon waves the two bottles that he’s carrying, though a thought passes that perhaps Tommy is merely happy to see him and not the alcohol he’s carrying. They’ve always been close, from the day Jon joined Senator Obama’s staff, but lately they’ve - they’ve been closer._

_The feeling sits, lodged in Jon’s chest. A constant awareness of Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. Jon doesn’t understand what - what this feeling is. He tries not to think about it too much, afraid of that understanding, afraid of what it might mean to figure out his feelings for him. Afraid of finding that there would be something serious and deep and real._

_For Tommy. For his best friend._

_He’s never been the type to be serious, flitting from girl to girl like the seasons. He’s never been the type to get attached. Sometimes, the feeling Tommy inspires seems overwhelming and daunting and scary. Other times, when Tommy smiles at him, when people make room for him next to Tommy because that’s seen as_ his _spot, when they spend nights like this one, curled up on the couch just enjoying each other’s company, the feeling isn’t so frightening._

_It feels as easy as breathing. It’s light and warm and good._

_He means to sit back down next to Tommy - he doesn’t remember when it became standard for them to always be pressed against each other, doesn’t remember when personal space became obsolete - and in his tipsiness, sits too close, ends up half on Tommy’s lap and half awkwardly tilting down to the couch. Laughter erupts between them and Jon nearly loses his already somewhat precarious balance on Tommy’s lap. “Jon,” Tommy’s voice rumbles next to his ear, his hands coming to Jon’s hips to steady him. He’s aware, suddenly, of Tommy against him. Of Tommy’s breath, warm and slightly unsteady, against his neck. Of Tommy’s chest, strong and broader than his, usually hidden behind suit jackets just a bit too big, pressed against his back. Of Tommy’s hands, capable and sure, on his hips. Tommy’s thigh between his legs._

_He pats Tommy’s other leg as he slides off of him, resting his head on his shoulder as though drunker than he truly is. Tommy’s arm slings around his shoulder and holds him and the silence feels as though it is screaming all of the truths about their relationship that Jon is not yet ready to hear, to know, to feel._

_“Jon,” Tommy repeats again, voice soft, and his other hand tries to come up to Jon’s face but he catches him by the wrist before he can get there. It’s urgent, knowing from Tommy’s voice that his feelings are - are a match to Jon’s in some way, that he understand._

_Breathing in deep, running his thumb over the soft skin of the inside of Tommy’s wrist, he says, “So I, uh, I’ve got this friend.”_ _  
_

_Confusion laces through Tommy’s expression, his eyebrows knit together, his head cocked to the side. Jon steadies himself and continues, “They think, you know that maybe - maybe they’ve got feelings for someone, a good friend.” He lets his eyes flit up to Tommy’s face but doesn’t look long enough to really gauge his reaction. “But they’re not sure that they are, you know, ready for something like that.” He keeps his face where it’s pressed into Tommy’s shoulder, drawing comfort from the contact._

_“Oh.” It’s a drawn out, breathless thing, soft and delighted. “Well,” Tommy says, and his arm tightens around Jon’s shoulder, pulling him in so that Jon is pretty much laying on top of him. “I’m sure that their friend would be willing to wait,” the words are spoken right into Jon’s ear, deliberate and knowing. On impulse, Jon tilts his head back and kisses the bottom of Tommy’s jaw._

_He goes out the next night and finds a girl, tall and blonde and lean, with bright blue eyes, and he takes her home. Jon isn’t sure what he’s searching for in between the sighs and the moans and the heat, but he doesn’t find it. The satisfaction isn’t there. Still, he gets off easily enough, makes sure she does too, her legs wrapped around his face, his tongue working inside of her, until she’s wild with it and screaming loud enough that his roommates here at the flop house surely can hear it._

_When he wakes up, she’s long gone. The bed’s cold and her clothes have been picked up off the floor and Jon trudges to the kitchen for coffee. Something about Tommy’s posture as he leans over his plate looks fragile. “Hey, man,” he says, reaching out to run a hand through Tommy’s hair, cheer him up from whatever’s upsetting him._

_Tommy bites his lip for a second, looking at him questioningly, then seems to let it pass. “Have a good night?” It’s teasing, Tommy using a salacious voice that implies he knows exactly what Jon got up to._

_A blush stains his cheeks and he rubs the back of his neck, shaking his head. “That loud, huh?”_

_“My eardrums will never be the same,” Tommy responds, deadpan and wry._

_Jon rolls his eyes. “The next time you bring home a girl, dude, you can be as loud as you want as payback, yeah?” The words fall easily from Jon’s tongue even as the idea of it sets an itch under his skin. But he’d told Tommy that he isn’t ready, isn’t expecting him to sit around faithfully until he is. Doesn’t get to ask that of him._

_Tommy laughs just a little, bites the inside of his cheek. “Sure thing.”_

_They share a desk at the campaign office and when Jon looks up, he finds Tommy already smiling at him. There’s a flutter in his chest and Jon hopes that someday, someday, he’ll be ready for - that he’ll_ deserve _\- the way that Tommy looks at him._

* * *

An easy silence settles between them as they both sip their beers, looking at but not really watching the baseball game on TV. Out of the corner of his eye though, Jon watches Tommy work through his thoughts, occasionally opening his mouth to say something before his teeth come down into his bottom lip and the quiet continues.   
The best way to handle Tommy like this is to wait. He'll find the exact words he's trying for, what he wants to convey and how. Pressuring him doesn't get him there faster, actually throws a loop in the track.   
  
"Is it -" Tommy starts hesitantly, then frowns, not liking that opener, apparently. "I know I can be... too much. That what I want is, well, a lot. But am I... Is it more than..."  
  
Tommy gives a vague hand gesture and Jon tries to puzzle out what it is that he's asking.   
  
The confusion must be obvious because Tommy nods, eyes becoming fixed on a bookshelf in the corner of the room and Jon braces himself for whatever Tommy is going to say that he's too scared to see the reaction to.   
  
"I mean, when we were almost... that was why, wasn't it? That I wanted too much. You were - you are my best friend and the idea of being with me like that was too much, even for you. So, is it - do I ask for more than... more than I can have?" Tommy's voice is so small, so unsure and Jon feels ice creeping through every inch of his body.   
  
Jon covers his mouth with his hand and wants to go back and throttle everyone who had ever made Tommy feel like this. Especially himself.   
  
He wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake Tommy until he never asks a question like this again, sad and small and hurt, wondering if wanting someone to love him is a demand that's simply too high.   
  
He wants to kiss Tommy until that doubt and that pain and that heartbreak disappears. He wants to go back and be young but not stupid this time. He wants, he wants, he wants.   
  
All at once the shutters come back over Tommy's eyes and his expression smoothes out and Jon had forgotten, in the years since they've left the White House, just how well Tommy can pull a mask around him until he's unreadable. It unsettles him, that he's doing it here, doing it now on Jon's couch.   
  
"I understand," Tommy says, and his voice is formal and stiff, any and all traces of the earlier vulnerability gone. "I shouldn't have asked, my apologies."  
  
He stands, the motion tight and controlled, and Jon's heart is in his throat and he doesn't understand what caused the shift. Doesn't understand what it is that sent Tommy scrambling for his defenses.  
  
Jon hasn't even said anything.  
  
Oh, Jesus, _fuck_ , he hasn't said anything.   
  
Tommy had shown him a fear that he's maybe never shown anyone else. Tommy had shown him his wounds - that Jon had helped make and god, Tommy still trusts him with them, trusts him to see it.   
  
Tommy had given him that and Jon had sat there and he didn't say anything.   
  
"No, wait, Tom," he calls out, running after him, but he's already in his car, pulling away.   
  
And Jon knows Tommy, knows this technique. Knows that Tommy is heading somewhere that he can be alone when the mask comes back off rather than show - someone, anyone, him - the damage beneath it. Jon can't have that. He can't.   
  
He scrambles to find his keys.

* * *

_“Hello, Mr. Vietor,” Jon waves slightly awkwardly as he steps into the room, walking up and shaking his hand. Tommy is sitting in the chair next to his dad which leaves Jon the one further away, but it doesn’t matter. He can’t begrudge Tommy that. “It’s nice to meet you.”_

_“You too, Jonathan. Tommy’s told me all about you.” His voice is warm and welcoming, his handshake strong, his face open and friendly. Only the setting, a cold hospital room in New York, gives away that Tommy’s dad is sick. That, and the distress that Tommy hadn’t managed to keep out of his voice when he’d asked, forced casual, if Jon would be willing to make the drive to come be here. “All good things, of course.”_

_He looks so much like Tommy, Christ._

_Or, Jon figures, Tommy looks like his dad. Mr. Vietor waves his hand to the empty seat next to Tommy and Jon startles, having forgotten that he was hovering awkwardly on the other side of the hospital bed. “Well, he’s certainly left some things out then,” Jon jokes, looking mostly at Tommy, who hasn’t yet smiled since Jon got here. He gets an approximation of one and figures it will have to do for now._

_“He’s told me about what really matters,” and there’s an easy smile on his face that sets Jon at ease even as he looks quickly over at Tommy because it can’t be - it’s definitely not about the way he and Tommy almost - “You’re a Red Sox fan.”_

_Jon laughs and nods, relieved but also excited to discuss the Sox with someone other than Tommy, whose opinions he already knows, and Lovett, who doesn’t have any opinions at all and doesn’t care to have opinions either. This discussion, at least, seems to get Tommy engaged and Jon wonders if Mr. Vietor had known that would be the case, had picked it because he knew his son would get drawn in. There’s a knowing sort of look in his eyes, mixed with something incredibly kind, that tells Jon that’s probably true._

_A nurse interrupts their discussion of Wakefield - doing well, but he’s getting older, and his knuckleball isn’t landing the way it used to - and Jon watches the way Tommy retracts back into himself at the reminder of where they are. He doesn’t quite know what’s going on, but he can tell that this is part of the routine - Tommy’s dad barely seems to need the instructions the nurse is giving him and Tommy has begun packing up some of his things and Jon sits there uselessly, watching more proof that Mr. Vietor is sick._

_Tommy excuses himself for a moment and Jon debates following until a hand stops him. “Yes, Mr. Vietor?”_

_For the first time, he seems to be measuring his words, and the expression on his face again reminds Jon sharply of Tommy, these mannerisms that they share. “You care about my son,” he starts, and Jon wants to interrupt with ‘of course’ but Mr. Vietor holds up a hand, asking not to be interrupted and the interjection dies before it begins._

_“I’m not well, Jonathan.” Judging by the seriousness in his eyes, that’s an understatement. Mr. Vietor’s other hand comes to encase Jon’s as he says, “Look after him.”_

_This time, he gives the answer he had been about to say before: “Of course.”_

_Tommy comes back and Jon pretends he doesn’t notice that his eyes are slightly rimmed with red. “We should go,” Tommy’s voice doesn’t sound like he’s been crying, but Jon can’t be sure, “visiting hours are almost over.”_

_Jon steps out of the room first, but Tommy isn’t far behind. Quiet settles between them as he leads Tommy to the car he’d driven here and it’s only broken by Tommy giving Jon directions on how to get to where Tommy’s staying. The hotel isn’t anything fancy, but it’s close to the hospital, and it works._

_Tommy keeps looking over at him and Jon knows what he’s looking for, what he needs. Tommy needs Jon to understand his grief, to understand how much his father means to him. He needs Jon to understand why he’ll be devastated at the loss. “Your dad is a really good man, Tommy. I’m glad I got to meet him, you obviously love him a lot.”_

_The way Tommy smiles at that, far away and yet so palpably sad, makes him look so young and it’s been a while since Jon has thought of them that way - as two kids, in over their heads, trying to get a Senator elected as President. The responsibilities and the demands of the White House make him feel older by the day, but they are still young. Too young, for Tommy to be losing his father. Tommy will be turning thirty in a few weeks but he - he isn’t even thirty yet and his dad is sick and isn’t going to get better._

_Crossing the room in a few steps, Jon pulls Tommy tight to him for a few seconds, just long enough to feel how some of the tightness that Tommy always seems to carry himself with these days seep out of his frame. There are so many things he wants to say to him - you’re okay, your dad’s gonna be okay, everything will be fine - but none of those things are actually true so Jon says what is. “I’m right here for you, okay?”_

_Tommy’s response is a quiet, “I know.” When he pulls back, Jon lets him step away, stomping down the urge to wrap him in his arms again at the way Tommy holds onto his sides, as though hugging himself. “Thanks for coming, Jon. I - it means a lot to me.”_

_“I needed you to meet him. I needed you to see that…” Tommy trails off with shrug, like he doesn't know what means to say, but Jon is pretty sure he understands._

_Tommy needs Jon to know what a loss that this will be for him, needs Jon to see that the foundation of his grief is how much he loves his father. He nods, making sure Tommy sees how sincere he is when he says, “I did. I saw it.”_

_After a few minutes where they both putter around the hotel room, Jon putting his things away and Tommy trying hard to make it seem as though he isn’t following him around, Jon suggests, “Why don’t we sleep?”_

_Jon doesn’t actually get much rest that night, or any of the other nights he stays, and neither does Tommy, but they face the next morning together and he hopes that it helps Tommy, having him by his side._

_Returning to the White House is rough, Jon needing to fight his impulse to check in on Tommy too often. But he watches how Tommy throws himself into his work and he worries. The hours he spends at work seem to grow longer and longer, the bags under Tommy’s eyes becoming more pronounced as he buries himself in his work._

_He knows Biden has pulled Tommy aside, has told him to go home, a gentle hand on his shoulder and a kind expression in his eyes. He knows, equally, that Tommy had shaken his head, had insisted that this was where he needed to be._   
_  
_ _Jon knows because the Vice President told him so, had asked after Tommy with concern. His chest feels tight with - with_ something - _at the idea that he is the person to go to for Tommy, that this is common knowledge in the White House. "I know, sir. Believe me, I do. But having something to do gives him a distraction, lets him think about something else instead of his dad. I don't think he's... ready to deal with it yet. And I’m not sure making him stop will help."_

_Biden’s words still ring in his ear: “No one is ready to let go of someone they love that much. Take care of him.”_

_Jon’s going to._

_Summer gives way to autumn and Tommy visits his father when he can, but Jon knows it isn’t nearly often enough. Jon asks after his dad after one visit and Tommy shakes his head silently, doesn’t give him any other answer. He squeezes Tommy’s shoulder tight, hoping somehow to ease some of this burden. Later, he wakes Lovett from a stress nap, sends him Tommy’s way with the instruction not to leave until he gets something resembling a smile._

_Work picks up as the first round of midterms looms ahead; polls don’t look great and plans are being drawn and redrawn about how to keep going in the case of different scenarios. Jon’s exhausted; all the Communications staff is, constantly prepping comments and speeches and anything else the President needs in this first referendum on his time in office._

_Knocking wakes Jon from where he'd fallen asleep on the couch, crinkled versions of his latest draft of a speech on energy policy surrounding him. It doesn't stop, either, a constant rapping at his door and he knows what this is._   
  
_At the door is Tommy, eyes wide and distraught and confused, shining with tears. Jon steps back from the door, letting him in wordlessly. He places a steadying hand on Tommy's elbow, and not knowing what else to do, leads him to the kitchen for a glass of water, like his mom always gave to him whenever he was upset about something._   
  
_They get there but as soon as Jon's hand falls away, Tommy sinks to the floor with sobs wracking his frame as though Jon’s touch had been the only thing keeping him together. Jon falls with him, holding him tight, tears of his own falling._   
  
_Tommy's body shakes in his arms, his grief pouring over, so big and so deep and so enormous that he can't contain it. There on his kitchen floor, Tommy falls apart._   
  
_"My dad," he cries, hands squeezing at Jon's on his chest. "My dad."_   
  
_There's nothing Jon can say to make it better, so he holds tighter, hoping there's comfort in it. How can he say that it's okay when it's not? How can he say that it will all be alright when Tommy's father is gone?_   
_  
Tomorrow, Jon will have to find the right words to say. Tonight, he lets the silence be its own comfort._

* * *

He finds his keys but that’s only the first issue because Jon doesn’t actually know where Tommy is going. He knows him well enough to rule out that he might just go home - he wouldn’t want reminders of his everyday life when he tries to process something like this. The issue with that is that it only leaves the rest of California.

It takes Jon nearly half an hour to remember the time that Tommy had shown up at his door and refused to tell him where they were going for over an hour until they were at these beautiful sea caves. Tommy had called it “his place,” had said that he goes there sometimes to feel like he’s alone with the ocean, or something else so entirely dorky yet sincere that both he and Tommy had laughed, but they’d hung out in there for a long time, talking about the country and what they were going to do now and other than the day Crooked Media was founded, it had been one of the first times after the election that Jon had felt that he was okay.

He leaps off the couch and into his car, driving to that beach, swearing at every car he gets stuck behind that doesn’t seem to realize how important it is that he gets where he’s going as soon as possible. Jon pulls off the highway and parks his car next to the beach, a small sense of victory at seeing Tommy’s car here inching its way into the need to see him, to set this right. He may have completely fucked this up tonight - probably longer than that, no, _definitely_ longer than that - but he knows Tommy.

Jon leaves his shoes at the entrance to the caves, rolls his pants up to his ankle as he closes his eyes and tries to remember the path Tommy had led him down that day, smiling at him and refusing to answer questions still until they’d arrived at a larger cavern, the water a stunning blue and sunlight streaming through the rock. He takes a wrong turn once, but he notices almost right away, doesn’t let it turn him around.

His breath catches in his chest when he finds Tommy, sitting at the edge of the water, knees curled up to his chest, shoulders hunched in, like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible. Even with the tears streaking his face, he’s gorgeous, the sunlight filtering in surrounding him in a golden halo of light.

Jon kneels down beside him, wrapping his arms around him, holding Tommy’s head tight to his chest so that he can feel the wetness of the tears through his shirt.

“”I’m sorry,” Tommy whispers and Jon lets out a wounded noise, kissing the top of his head. “When I tried to think of what the worst thing you could say was, I hadn’t… I hadn’t considered the silence.” His voice is hollow, the way it gets after he’s cried. “I shouldn’t have - I shouldn’t have asked, shouldn’t have put you in that position. What we have is good,” at that, the first hint of a smile graces Tommy’s lips. “What we have is more than enough for me.”

With those words, he pulls himself out of Jon’s arms so that he can lean back and meet his eyes. There’s sadness and longing but also a resolute truth: if Jon lets this pass, if Jon gives the word, Tommy wouldn’t ever bring up all the things they might have been again.

“‘No one has ever truly gotten over Jonathan Favreau,’” he says, voice soft and curious and probing, repeating the words that have been echoing around in his mind the whole drive over here. Tommy flinches, shoulders coming up to his ears and his eyes squeezing shut, but Jon doesn’t let him put space between them.

“Jon,” Tommy whispers, shaking his head, and he’s never heard so much despair in his name before, “don’t.”

“You never said,” Jon matches the whisper, this moment between them feeling so fragile that speaking above a hush might break it.

Tommy scoffs and this time Jon lets him go, watching him as he stands up, wrapping his arms around his chest as though hugging himself, comforting himself. He rises to his feet as well, but keeps his distance, lets Tommy have the space he’s taken for himself.

“Why would I?” Jon blinks at the matter-of-fact tone that Tommy uses, as though - as though the fact that he still loves him isn’t a revelation, isn’t something that’s turning Jon’s world on its axis. “Jon, you - you’re my best friend. I wasn’t going to keep bringing it up after what happened. I was - I kept trying to move on. I’m sorry.”

“You could have -” Jon’s voice is strangled and he has no idea where he’s going with that.

Tommy shakes his head emphatically. “Jon, you didn’t want me back then.” His shoulders give an approximation of what he’s probably hoping to pass off as a casual shrug, but is far too stiff to really work. “And as we’re both aware, I’m not… I haven’t really changed all that much. Everything that was wrong with me then is still…”

Jon has looked back and disliked the person he was before, but he’s never quite hated a younger version of himself more than he does right now. He hates that version of him in the Senate office who had a slight lisp and a hideous buzzcut and a terrible sense of fashion. Because that version of him had managed to get Tommy to fall in love with him despite all of that and had done the worst thing he could do: he’d decided Tommy’s devotion was too heavy a weight to bear.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Tommy,” and Jon steps forward to put his hands on his shoulders. “Nothing,” he whispers, meaning it more than any other word he’s said in his life. Slowly, he slides one of his hands from Tommy’s shoulder up the back of his neck to pull him into a kiss.

Except Tommy startles, eyes wide, taking steps back to recreate the space between them.

“Please, Jon, no,” he whispers, and the utter desolation in Tommy’s voice, on his face, punches a hole in Jon’s chest, has his heart in his throat.

“Why not?” He asks, taking a tiny step forward but stopping when he sees Tommy retreat again. The rock wall is at his back, casting his face in shadow, out of the light that had surrounded him earlier.

Tommy looks at the waves rolling in at their feet when he responds, “Jon, I left the White House at the same time as you because I couldn’t imagine being there without you. I moved all the way across the country because you asked me to. And that’s - that’s when I was as close as I’ve ever been to _letting you go_.”

Jon feels a rush of affection in his chest and takes another step forward, pressing, “That doesn’t really sound like an argument against you wanting me to kiss you.” Tommy has been here, all this time. No matter how oblivious he’s been.

Disbelieving and entirely unamused laughter leaves Tommy and he says, "You think I don't want that? You think I don't want to kiss you every time I look up and see you smiling at me? Every time you put a pen against your lips while you think? I think about kissing you every goddamn day." Tommy bites his lip so hard Jon can see it going white. "I'm not telling you the reasons why I don't want you to kiss me. I’m telling you the reasons why you can't.”

Jon doesn’t understand. The confusion must be obvious on his face because Tommy huffs a breath, shakes his head.

“Jon, you _can’t_ ,” Tommy sounds frantic, “please. I haven’t - I haven’t let you go yet. After all this time. If you kiss me… If you give me this, and then change your mind, if you take it away…” His voice breaks on that last word and he doesn’t try to go on.

They both know what he means. If Tommy were to finally let himself lay his heart in Jon’s hands and Jon were to leave, it would shatter him, shatter the heart that is so much more fragile than most people think.

But Jon also knows what a retreat in this moment would do to Tommy. What it would mean for Jon to stand down, to let the moment pass. He won’t have another shot at this, he knows it.

Whatever Jon chooses, he has to be sure. Whatever Jon chooses, he can’t take it back. “If I kiss you, you’re mine, yeah?”

Tommy covers his mouth with his hands, trying to mask the sob that came out.

“If I kiss you, there’s no going back?” Jon steps just a little closer and Tommy is out of room to get away, back already pressed against the rock. His eyes are darting around wildly, as though he’s desperately trying to look somewhere other than at Jon. He keeps walking closer and Tommy’s hand is trembling against the wall behind him.

“That’s why, isn’t it, Tommy?”

Shutting his eyes tight as though it would be too painful to see Jon while he admits it, Tommy nods, chokes out, “Yes.”

Jon is struck by the beautiful bravery of this, of Tommy revealing what he obviously considers to be his weakness. And of doing so while certain that his love is unmatched, that this adoration is a one-sided affair.

So while Tommy’s eyes are still closed, Jon kisses him.

It tastes like the bitter salt of tears, but it doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter at all, not when Tommy’s hands fist in the shirt across Jon’s back, pulling him in closer and closer. It doesn’t matter because Tommy gives himself over to the kiss like a drowned man finally able to breathe again, like a blind man finally seeing the light, like a nymphomaniac on death row who won’t ever have this again.

Nothing matters, Jon finds, but the slide of their lips and the press of their bodies.

When the kiss is finished, Jon buries his face in Tommy’s shoulder, breathing in his scent. Slowly, he slips his hands up the back of Tommy’s shirt, letting his fingers trace aimless patterns in the skin there.

“Jonathan,” Tommy sounds frightened and Jon snaps his head up at once to meet his eyes. “Why?” In his eyes is an obvious battle for the last vestiges of his control. He’s trying so hard to hold himself back and Jon removes his hands from Tommy’s back in order to cup his face.

“Because you’re mine, Tom.” Jon says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world and it is. Tommy belongs to him just as he belongs to Tommy. He strokes his thumbs across Tommy’s cheekbones, wiping away the last of the tears. “And there’s no going back. This is it.”

He kisses Tommy again and he’s blown away all over again at the way Tommy opens up for him, at the way he gives himself to it. A long time ago, the depths of that would have sent him running, the responsibility of Tommy’s heart in his hands. In this little cavern, him and Tommy and the sea, Jon leans in to rest their foreheads together, whispers with a smile splitting his face, “I love you so much.”

* * *

_Tommy has a girlfriend._

_Jon takes another sip of his whiskey and tries to process it again. Tommy has a_ girlfriend _._

_It sits painfully in his chest, stifling and suffocating and heavy. If he closes his eyes, he can still hear the way Tommy’s voice had sounded when he’d said that he’d wait for Jon. It wouldn’t be fair, after all this time - all the years that have passed since - for Jon to expect that he’d still be waiting. It wouldn’t be fair, after he gave Tommy_ nothing _, to act like he can’t have someone else either._

_The worst is that he didn’t even hear about it from Tommy himself, but from watercooler gossip that he’d overheard in the Mess. The whiskey burns his throat in a way that Jon doesn’t enjoy but it’s what Dan had offered when he showed up at his office, looking pathetic and sad and refusing to talk about it._

_Jon has no right to be upset about this, keeps trying to remind himself of that. Reminds himself of all the times that he and Tommy had been so close only for Jon to look away, duck his head, let the moment pass by. Reminds himself of all the times that he’d seen hope in Tommy’s eyes when he looked at him and the way Jon had always shaken his head, not able to give Tommy what he wanted. Reminds himself of all the ways Tommy had reached out, time and time again, only for Jon to tell him no in some way._

_Thinking back, he tries to pinpoint when it was exactly that Tommy stopped hoping that he might come around, when Jon had last seen Tommy looking at him like there was still something there for him. The fact that he can’t remember burns more than the whiskey does._

_Dan cuts him off after a few, shoos him on home, telling him to get some sleep and that whatever trouble he’s having, he can always deal with it in the morning. There’s some laughter between them when it takes Jon a second try to get out of his chair because he tripped over his own foot the first time, but Jon heads home, walking to the subway in the warm, humid air of a D.C. summer._

_Jon texts Lovett, hoping for some company where he can simply enjoy himself. Lovett can be a lot but that’s exactly what Jon wants right now: something else to focus on that demands all of his attention the way that Lovett does, hands on his hips and an expectant expression on his face._

_He still hasn’t responded when he gets back out of the subway and Jon remembers that he has a date with some guy from the State Department that night that Lovett actually seemed to care about impressing. With a sigh, he puts his phone back in his pocket and starts for his apartment, walking pretty much on autopilot. But when he reaches the intersection to turn left for his place, on impulse he takes a right, heading for the apartment that Lovett shares with Tommy._

_If he’s out for the night, then Tommy’s alone and he can - he can talk to him. He can take back all those moments where he was too afraid of what they could be and tell Tommy how he feels. He can apologize for the time that he’s wasted and reassure Tommy that he’s here now, that he’s willing and able to give what Tommy wants. Jon can finally,_ finally _kiss him._

_Feeling buoyed by this plan and the warmth of the alcohol in his stomach, he makes his way to Tommy’s place. Jon tries to plan out what he’s going to say and how Tommy’s going to react but despite all of his speechwriting capabilities, he comes up blank. He’ll have to wing it, but it’ll be more heartfelt that way._

How many stairs are there to get to Tommy’s apartment? _It seems to be taking longer than Jon remembers it usually does._

_Knocking on the door, he leans against the doorframe, letting his eyes fall shut for just a second as he listens to the rhythm of Tommy walking toward the door, the lock flipping open, the chain being pulled back. Jon opens his eyes to see Tommy shirtless - freckled and lean and pale - and it isn’t anything he hasn’t seen before but it feels different now that Jon has acknowledged that he wants this._

_“Jon?” Tommy’s voice is a question that reminds him exactly why he’s here and he pushes forward off the doorframe and kisses him._

_It was supposed to come later in the plan, but that’s alright. Kissing him now is good, kissing him now feels right. Their lips slide a bit awkwardly together so Jon steps closer to get a better angle, hand coming to rest on Tommy’s hip._

_A moan leaves him and then Tommy steps back and Jon stumbles forward slightly, off balance at the sudden movement. He doesn’t seem happy, Jon thinks, and tries to lean in to kiss him again, to make him realize what’s going on._

_Strong hands land on his shoulders instead. “How drunk are you, Jon?”_

_“S’not important, Tommy,” he says, needing to make his point. Jon takes a few steps farther into the apartment and is met with the sight of a girl - Tommy’s_ girlfriend _, Kathy or Karlie or Kasie or something, he can’t remember now._

_“I found your shirt,” Jon says, pointing at her, and Tommy’s shoulders lift the way they do when he isn’t letting himself laugh._

_“Thank you, Jon. That was so helpful.” He has his eyes shut now so he can’t be sure that Tommy is making fun of him, but he’s pretty sure that he might be. “How many drinks have you had?”_

_“A few,” he admits, tired now that his plan hasn’t worked out. Jon had had so much energy coming here but he’s not sure where that came from because he’s really exhausted. “A few.” His thoughts are scattered since he doesn’t have his plan to stick to._

_“Okay,” Tommy’s voice is soft and Jon leans into the hand that’s rubbing circles on his back. There are other noises in the apartment but it’s too hard to figure out where they’re coming from and what they mean and it’s much easier to follow Tommy into the kitchen, to take a glass of water from him._

_His girlfriend appears and she’s wearing her own clothes and Jon looks down at the table when Tommy leans down and kisses her goodnight._

_“Let’s put you to bed, huh?” Jon looks up and Tommy is talking to him, must be, because his girlfriend is gone._

_Jon shakes his head ruefully even as Tommy helps him stand, is leading him towards his bedroom. “‘M drunk,” he mumbles._

_He can’t figure out why Tommy sounds so sad when he says, “Yes, Jon, you really are.”_

_More water appears on the nightstand next to his head and Jon drinks it, looking up at Tommy who’s just standing there near the bed. “Get in. It’s your bed,” he insists and Tommy hesitates but nods._

_“Alright. Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you anyway.” Tommy lays down beside him and Jon rolls over to face him. He looks so pretty with the way the streetlight filters in through the blinds and Jon leans forward to try to kiss him again but he gets stopped before he can._

_“You’re drunk, Jon. Try to get some sleep,” Tommy insists but Jon doesn’t want to sleep, he wants to be sure that Tommy understands that he loves him._

_“Tommy,” his voice is a whine but he can’t help it, “I love you.”_

_Tommy must still not get it because he only sounds more sad when he says, “Please go to sleep, Jon. Please.”_

_He’s about to protest but Tommy wraps an arm around his waist and the weight of it is a comfort, holding him in place. The heaviness of sleep tugs at his eyes and Jon tries to shift closer to Tommy before he crashes._

_When he wakes up, the smell of food is overwhelming and his stomach flips, not liking even that. Jon feels like garbage as he tries to stand up, looking around._ Why is he at Tommy’s place?

_The memories from the night before filter in - getting drunk with Dan, trying to kiss Tommy - and Jon groans, his head falling into his hands. Apparently he’d been too drunk to even walk home the night before. He was at least drunk enough that he doesn’t even remember much past walking into Tommy’s apartment. Jesus, he’s an idiot. Still, he can’t avoid it forever so he steps out into the kitchen and sees Tommy making eggs. Jon watches for a second before sliding into one of the barstools at the counter. “Feeling alright?”_

_Jon nods and instantly regrets it for the headache it gives him and Tommy has advil out already, hands it over to him as he stirs the eggs._

_“Tommy,” Jon starts, “I’m sorry about, you know, all that. I didn’t mean - I didn’t mean to…”_

_“No, I know,” Tommy says, “I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”_

_Jon wants to scream all the things he did mean, all the things he does feel. Instead, he accepts some eggs and toast with a smile._

* * *

The drive home doesn’t seem to take nearly as long when Jon is following Tommy’s car back, the buzz of their kisses coursing through his veins. His heart still feels like it’s pounding in his chest, each beat reminding him of what just happened. Him and Tommy. Him and Tommy. Him and Tommy.

When they get inside at Tommy’s place, he flips through the sports channels Jon never bothered to buy and turns on the Red Sox game, walking into the kitchen and coming back with two beers. Watching Tommy take a sip reminds him so much of only just hours ago, but it feels like the whole world is different. Once he puts down his beer, Jon leans forward to kiss him because he can now.

It’s soft and sweet and he can’t stop the smile spreading across his face when they pull apart. He pulls his feet up underneath him on the couch, leaning his head against Tommy’s shoulder as they sit together.

Different from all his other relationships is the sense of peace. He’s in no rush, they have time. Every so often he glances up from the game to look at Tommy and he can see all the little differences now that he isn’t trying to hide. Jon can see how the corners of his eyes crinkle when he catches him looking, can see the tiny lift of his lips in the second before Tommy remembers that he can kiss him and does.

The sun has long since set when the game is finished and Jon is in the hazy, wonderful place between sleeping and awake. He has no idea who won but he does know that Tommy’s shoulder is warm and his shirt is soft and he never wants to leave.

“Come on, darling,” Tommy’s voice above him is perfect. It’s not as though Jon hadn’t noticed before - they run a podcast, obviously he’s spent his fair share of time listening to Tommy’s voice - but it has never lodged in his chest this way, never felt as though Tommy’s words were wrapping around him like a blanket.  “Let’s get to bed, huh?”

Jon blinks and Tommy is already in his pajamas, smiling at him with laughter in his eyes. Jon blinks again and he’s in Tommy’s arms, getting carried somewhere. He blinks and he’s in Tommy’s bedroom, sheets pulled up to his chin, with Tommy giving him a kiss on the forehead.

He tries to say goodnight as Tommy wraps his arms around him but he isn’t sure he says anything at all before he’s back asleep again.

Sunlight streaming through the windows wakes him and Jon can already tell that it’s later than he usually sleeps. It’s when he steps out of bed that he realizes that he’s in Tommy’s sweatpants, that Tommy must have gotten them onto him last night when he was too tired to help. The soft smile is still on his face when he walks into the kitchen and sees Tommy in his old faded Kenyon tee, scrolling through his phone while holding a mug of coffee in the other hand.

“Hey,” Tommy says softly, as though Jon is the beautiful one when Tommy is bathed in a soft, warm light, making him look even better than he always does. “I made you some coffee, but that was” - he looks over at the clock that reads 9:30 - “over an hour ago, so it'll probably be cold now.”

He stands up to put it in the microwave and Jon kisses him on the cheek. “You slept past eight?” He hasn't known Tommy to do that in years.

A pink blush stains Tommy’s cheeks and he shakes his head, admits, “No, I was up just a little after seven,” which is still late by Tommy’s standards, “but I tried to stay in bed until you woke up. After a while though, the need for coffee and a shower was just too strong.”

Jon gratefully accepts the mug of coffee from Tommy but sets it aside to kiss him up against the counter. He hums into the kiss, a perfect thing, lazy and slow. “We’ll have to go into the office at some point today,” Jon whispers, but makes no move to disentangle himself from Tommy. He could stay here, in this moment, for the rest of his life. But then, he has a lifetime of other moments to share with Tommy, too.

“What do you want to say?” Tommy asks, thumbs rubbing circles on Jon’s hips in a way that makes him ache with tenderness.

“Whatever you want,” Jon says, meaning it completely. “If you want to kiss me when you see me smiling at you, you should. If you want to make an announcement that somehow I'm lucky enough to have you, you should. If you want to wait a little bit and do it slowly, you should. If you want to elope in Bali and not tell anyone for years and then randomly drop it in a ProFlowers ad read, we can do that, too.”

Tommy laughs in that full-bodied way that means he's truly delighted, face turning red with it. “Do you” - he has to catch his breath quickly after the laughter dies down - “do you think Lovett knew? About us?”

It's a good question and Jon honestly has no idea. “Whatever the answer, I’m sure we’ll find out,” he says. “I doubt Lovett will hold back his opinion once we tell him.” A pause as Jon considers it, then says, “We should definitely tell him before everyone else, though. Imagine the outrage about not getting the goods first.”

Tommy nods and Jon leans forward on his toes to kiss him, only to be stopped by Tommy resting a finger on his lips. “Either have a few sips of coffee or brush your teeth first, darling. You have morning breath.”

In retaliation, Jon takes some of Tommy’s coffee instead of his own and drinks it, regretting it as soon as it hits his tastebuds. He never puts any sugar in it and Jon always forgets just how disgusting he thinks plain black coffee really is. Tommy laughs at the face he pulls and Jon can't help but giggle along. This time, Tommy accepts the kiss easily, arms wrapping around Jon’s waist.

“We should get going,” Tommy glances at the clock. “We’re approaching near-Lovett levels of lateness and we can't tell him first if the whole office knows because he somehow made it to work before us.”

Jon pouts but concedes the point. “I’ll have to stop for fresh clothes, too. I don't really want the announcement to be us showing up together with me in yesterday's outfit.”

Raising his eyebrows, Tommy makes a suggestive face and Jon rolls his eyes fondly, pushing away from the counter to collect his things while Tommy gets ready and he can see it so clearly in his mind, the two of them developing a morning routine together, weaving around each other, domestic and easy.

Tommy still somehow manages to get ready to go in a few short minutes, a habit from his White House days when every little delay meant something more than getting stuck in Los Angeles traffic. “I figure we’ll go to your place first and then swing by Lovett’s so that you can change and grab your things. And also to give him more time to get ready, since he won't be when we show up.”

Humming in acknowledgement, Jon pulls out his phone to tell Lovett that they're on their way, shaving a few minutes off the time they'll be there, hoping to have him be ready on time for once. Tommy walks with Jon inside his house, as though he's not willing to take his eyes off him for even a moment. Jon kisses him, simple and sweet, before bounding up the stairs to get changed, throwing on clean clothes and brushing his teeth. He debates shaving for a few seconds before deciding it isn't worth it - he runs a podcast, no one cares.

Coming back down the stairs, he sees Tommy sprawled out on his couch waiting for him and has to resist the sudden urge to drop to his knees, make them even later than they already are. It's not what he wants. He doesn't want to suck Tommy off in a hurry before work. Not for their first time, anyway.

Jon wants to be able to take his time.

Able to feel him staring, Tommy turns to look at him, stands up from the couch easily. He doesn't use his arms to push himself up and the casual reminder of how strong Tommy is shakes a bit of Jon’s resolve not to blow him right here. “Right,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Let’s go get Lovett.”

He's just across the street and Pundit barks when they head up the front steps, letting Lovett know they've arrived even before they let themselves in. Jon looks over at Tommy and sees mirrored amusement in his eyes as Lovett trods down the stairs, hair askew and one shoe still untied. “You’re late,” he says, but his tone makes it sound like he's bragging. “I'm never going to let you forget this. The next time you two - you two _taskmasters_ try to tell me ‘Oh, you need to be on time’ or ‘Lovett, is this what you call a reasonable hour to show up to work?,’ I will remember this day. When you showed up at,” he makes a show of looking down at his wrist with a flourish before pulling his phone out of his pocket because he doesn't wear a watch, “almost 10.”

Jon laughs as Lovett bends to lace up his shoe, looking over at Tommy. He gives a shrug that's more eyebrow than shoulder, a gesture that clearly conveys: _Up to you._

“Sorry about that Lovett,” Jon says, eyes lingering on Tommy before looking down to where Lovett keeps having to stop tying his shoe because Pundit won’t stop pressing her face into his hand, begging to be pet, “Tommy and I are together.”

The look on Tommy’s face at how simply he put it - charmed and happy and open - is a lot for Jon to see without wanting to pull him into a kiss so he turns his head to Lovett, trying to gauge his reaction.

“I'm aware of that you know,” he responds imperiously, not looking up from where he's entirely left his shoe undone to give Pundit belly rubs. “It might be the morning but my eyes do work. There definitely two bros in my front doorway as opposed to one. It's a truly a marvel sometimes that you worked for the President, Favreau.”

Warm laughter leaves Tommy and he laces his fingers in with Jon’s so that they're holding hands.

“No, Lovett,” he tries again. “Tommy and I are together.”

This time, Lovett drops the shoelace he'd only just gotten out from under Pundit and stands up to look at them quizzically, as though he isn't quite sure what he's looking at. But his eyes pause over the way Jon’s fingers are interlaced with Tommy’s, as he comes  to the realization of the change between them. “Okay.”

Except his voice is terse and uncomfortable and he walks into his kitchen right past them, standing up straight in a way that looks unnatural compared to his usual slump.

Jon squeezes Tommy’s hand before following after Lovett. “Are you sure, Lo? That didn't seem like a reaction to something that's okay with you.”

Lovett throws his hands out to the side in an exaggerated shrug. “My two bros are somehow both late for work and gay for each other all in the same morning so except for the fact that I’m dealing with a glitch in the physical realm, I’m fine, it’s fine, I guess. Why wouldn't I be fine? I’m fine.” His voice rises in both pitch and volume and his hand emphatically gestures around as if there’s evidence all around him that this is bizarre.

He makes a show of being busy grabbing the last of his things - his laptop and a snack and Pundit’s leash - and Jon lets him do it, but reaches out and squeezes his shoulder as he passes by. “We’ll be on time tomorrow,” he promises and even though their lateness isn't truly the issue here, Lovett seems to settle.

“You better be,” he mutters, but seems at least slightly mollified, not as rigid as before.

Jon follows after him with a smile, meets Tommy's eyes over Lovett’s head when they all head out to the car, nods at him, letting him know that Lovett’s alright. Tension eases from Tommy’s stance and he brushes his hand against Jon’s back as he passes by to the passenger’s side.

As soon as they’re on the highway, Lovett’s voice rings out from the back. “Just so you know, I have so many questions.”

Tommy throws his head back laughing and Jon takes a second to admire the line of his throat before turning his attention back to the road. “Of course you do,” they both say at once, casting each other smiles at the unison.

Lovett hums in a way that indicates he's not sure he like what he sees, isn't comfortable with it. Whatever the questions are, Lovett doesn't ask them.

* * *

_“This is the worst,” Jon grumbles, shifting as well as he can on the couch, trying to get comfortable with this splint on his ankle. Every little movement hurts and he can’t take any more pain medication for another hour. “I’m not gonna be able to walk on this thing for at least a month,” he complains._

_“Why are ankles designed so shitty anyway, Tom? You’d think that, as they are attached to your feet, which move a lot, ankles would be much more flexible. But, no! They’re shit!” It’s not one of his better rants; not very eloquent or evocative but hey, whatever, he fractured his ankle and he’s on pain meds. Jon’s giving himself a pass._

_Tommy has had his head buried in paperwork ever since he brought Jon back from urgent care. It could be really important national security stuff, or it could just be that Tommy wasn’t wowed by Jon’s impassioned lambasting of ankle structure. He doesn’t look up at all as he says drily, “That’s really interesting, Jon. Have you considered contacting your congressman?”_

_Pouting, Jon fluffs the pillow behind him before leaning back against the couch. “Do you really want to get me on the subject of D.C. statehood while I’m in this mood?” he asks petulantly._

_At this, Tommy looks up at him for the first time, a knowing smile on his face. He shakes his head. “Definitely not.”_

_Maybe it isn’t a life-or-death, brink of nuclear war, global pandemic that Tommy’s reading about, because he finally shuts his file and puts it down right on the coffee table. His classified files are kept in a lock box and even though Jon knows where it is, Tommy still won’t tell him how the thing actually opens._

_Jon tries to shift again and hisses as he does so, quickly halting his movements due to the pain. “Have I mentioned that this fucking sucks?”_

_“I don’t think you have yet, Jon.” Tommy’s voice manages to be nearly earnest, but he’ll never be an actor, unable to hold back the fact that he’s mocking him. “What is your opinion on fractured ankles?”_

_Jon reaches behind himself for the pillow he’d been leaning on and throws it at him. Tommy laughs when he misses and Jon sticks his tongue out at him._

_“I’m gonna go take a bath,” he says. He struggles to stay balanced as he gets to his feet before he can use his crutches to stabilize him. “Won’t help my ankle, but at least I’ll be clean.”_

_Ostensibly, the fact that Tommy has a bathtub in his apartment is the reason why Jon is staying here instead of at his own place. He only has a shower stall, and since his splint can’t get wet, that’s a no-go. But Jon can admit that as much as it makes sense, he also wants to be here with Tommy. Once he’s in Tommy’s bathroom, Jon tries to picture himself in his own at home, balancing on one foot with his other leg sticking out. He laughs a little to himself as he awkwardly fights to get his sweatpants over the splint without causing any more pain._

_He starts the taps running, checks that it’s the right temperature for him. Jon is beginning to marvel at how well he’s doing on his own until he’s faced with actually getting into the tub. He tries a few times but is always stuck on the final hurdle - getting his good leg in and keeping his bad leg out. His good leg is the only one that can hold weight and he can’t find a way to both lift it into the tub and keep himself from falling to the floor._

_With a sigh, he shuts off the taps and debates what to do._

_A knock on the bathroom door startles him. “Just checking in, you good?”_

_Jon wants to say yes, wants to make this work so that he doesn’t need Tommy to help him. But he looks back at the tub, looks down at his ankle. Sending Tommy away won’t solve either of those problems, even if it will spare him some momentary embarrassment._

_“Ah, um, there is something you could help with.” Jon quickly throws a towel over his waist as Tommy walks in. Pointless, really, since he’ll have to take it off again in a few seconds._

_“What’s up?” Tommy asks and Jon can’t pinpoint why but he wants to scream._

_Instead, he looks at the floor. “The tub is a little too steep for me to balance getting in. Could I - like, just, lean on you?”_

_Jon has no idea what Tommy’s face is doing but he nods and says, “Oh, yeah. Yeah, definitely,” and moves closer to Jon._

_It makes his decision to put on a towel even more stupid, because rather than just being naked this whole time, he’d attempted some version of modesty only to have to drop his towel as Tommy walks toward him. Jon’s mind tries to show him a scene where that would be on purpose, meant to arouse, and he shoves it down ruthlessly. He doesn’t need his body reacting to that right now._

_Tommy, for his sake, has dropped his eyes to the floor as he steps right beside him. “Here, I’ll, um, just lemme,” he mumbles. He attempts to arrange his arm around Jon’s bare back, then shakes his head and discards that idea. “Okay, let's try this,” he says. “Sit down at the edge of the tub.”_

_Jon has no idea what’s going on but he’s glad to get off his tired leg and he trusts Tommy, so he sits where he was motioned to. There’s an obvious battle going on across Tommy’s face, his eyes cast firmly on the ground even as he takes another step forward to help._

_“Alright, now I’m gonna,” Tommy finishes with hand motions but Jon gets the plan. He holds onto Tommy’s extended arm as he swings his good leg around the side of the tub, putting his body weight and balance on Tommy so that he doesn’t fall._

_Tommy leans over him to keep him balanced as Jon leans down in the tub and it’s - Jon’s been aware that he’s been naked this whole time, but he’s_ incredibly _aware of it now with Tommy so close to being on top of him. There’s a second where Jon is fully sat in the tub before he lets go of Tommy’s arms. It takes a second more for Tommy to blink and step away._

_He bends over and grabs Jon’s discarded towel, folding it and leaving it on the edge of the counter. It could be Tommy’s sense of neatness making him do it - Jon has never seen a towel left on the floor in the whole time he’s known Tommy - but there’s a nervous energy to him that tells Jon that perhaps Tommy is simply searching for something to do with his hands. The towel’s in easy reach for him when he gets out which - shit, he’ll need help with that too. From the look on his face, Tommy seems to realize this at the same time that Jon does, eyes finally moving back to him in the tub. Jon ducks his head, avoiding his gaze._

_It shouldn’t - it shouldn’t matter how exposed he is right now. They’ve changed next to each other on the campaign trail before, have seen each other in various states of undress in the flophouse in Chicago. Still, Jon feels fidgety, shifts slightly and regrets doing it when Tommy looks away again._

_He squats down in front of the bathroom counter, opening the cabinet below, obviously looking for something._

_“A fresh bar of soap,” Tommy says, as though he can read Jon’s mind. It never fails to make him smile when it happens, when they’re simply on the same wavelength. “And,” Tommy says with a flourish, “this.”_

_Jon laughs when he sees the old Red Sox washcloth. “Dude, this is the old logo, when did you last actually go to Fenway?”_

_“Before they changed the logo, obviously. I’m counting on you to take me there now, Favreau, since you brought it up.” Tommy unwraps the new bar of soap as he says it, stands with the washcloth and soap in his hands._

_Jon suddenly sees the hesitation in Tommy set in and can’t figure out why. He’s about to reach out and grab them from Tommy when he snaps out of it, mind made up about something. Probably about whatever doom and gloom was in that paperwork he’s been doing all afternoon. He gets distracted trying to think about which global crises Tommy might be working on right now, if it’s even a crisis that Jon knows about._ How much does Tommy know that almost no one else does?

_Jon is snapped out of his train of thought when he feels the washcloth run down his arm. Jon blinks and Tommy is kneeling by the side of the tub, washing his arm. Even if Jon wanted to protest, even if he had something to say about this, he couldn’t. His throat feels tight and his eyes can’t stop tracking the movement of Tommy’s hand sliding over his skin._

_The hand that’s not washing Jon is at his shoulder. Even where Jon doesn’t get much sun, Tommy’s still paler than he is. And when Tommy’s other hand is at his wrist, Jon can’t help but notice how much smaller he seems to be than Tommy; he hasn’t noticed it all that often before and his breath hitches slightly at it._

_Those thoughts aren’t helped when Tommy’s hand moves to his back, taking up a broad expanse of skin there. When he looks over, Tommy has leaned in closer, his face near Jon’s, a hint of pinkness staining his cheeks. Their eyes meet for a second before Jon quickly looks away, not wanting to get caught staring even though he definitely already did. Racking his brain for something else to think about - anything, anything other than the warmth of Tommy’s body shifting beside him, leaning over him to run his hand down his other arm -  Jon settles on the upcoming energy policy speech that he’s writing and actually finds a thread for the C block that he can work with, outlines that in his mind, mumbling a few phrases under his breath to test how they sound out loud._

_“The energy speech?” Tommy asks and Jon nods, brought back to the moment of Tommy’s hands on his body by the question. The washcloth is running over his good leg - his ankle and god, Tommy’s hands are big; his calf and it barely seems possible how light Tommy’s touch is, how soft; the back of his knee, and Jon wonders if the women Tommy fucks feel this way too, feel like his hands might actually be magic; and up his thigh and -_

_Jon’s half-hard and Tommy can see that and Jon thinks, in a way that he will later blame on pain meds,_ maybe, maybe, maybe _._

_But Tommy averts his eyes down to the water, clears his throat. After taking a deep breath, he moves on to Jon’s other thigh, washing down to the splint and back, gaze locked firmly on the tile of the bathroom floor, even as Jon stares openly at him._

_Done, he wrings out the washcloth, tossing it into the sink. “You ready?” He asks and Jon nods because yes, he’s suddenly desperate to get out of this tub. Getting him out goes quicker than getting him in and Tommy heads out, shutting the bathroom door behind him, even though there’s not really any need for privacy now. Not when Tommy’s already seen._

_Jon isn’t sure what would have been a good reaction to Tommy seeing Jon getting hard for him under his touch but - but no reaction whatsoever feels like possibly the worst. He struggles to get his clothes on but his skin is still wet and he gives up on that, flops back down on the couch in his towel and moodily watches the news, making faces whenever Scott Pelley speaks about politics or Republicans._

_Tommy hands him his next dose of pain medication and Jon checks the clock and realizes it’s a few minutes past when he should have taken it. “I set an alarm on my phone,” Tommy admits with a shrug as he hands him the glass of water he also brought._

_“Thanks, dude,” Jon says, patting the seat next to him. He throws back the pill and the water, shutting his eyes as CBS Nightly News plays._

_“Not as good as Katie Couric, is he?” Tommy asks._

_“Nah, not as engaging,” Jon replies with a yawn. A scratch of a key in the lock has him looking at the door._

_“Already open, Lovett,” Tommy calls and the sounds of keys jangling stops as Lovett lets himself in._

_He seems to glaze over the fact that Jon is here, walking steadily towards his own room, but then doubletakes and looks first at the splint and then at the way he’s still only in a towel, still red and warm from his bath. “Should I ask?” He jokes, “Or can I just assume that you two had overly ambitious shower sex and somehow injured poor Jon in the process? I’m really leaning leaning towards one answer here, guys. Something to put in my diary.”_

* * *

Work feels the same but every once in a while during the recording of the ads for the week, Jon will stretch out his legs and bump his feet against Tommy’s just to get him to look up and smile at him. Once, when he's thinking through a point on the outline for his Thursday Pod with Dan, Tommy taps his pencil against the desk to get Jon’s attention and then taps his pencil against his lips.

Jon tilts his head and then realizes that his pen is on his lips, has been for a while as he was focusing on his tablet. Tommy wants to kiss him. It makes him blush to think about and he smiles shyly down at his tablet before meeting Tommy’s eyes. “Your choice,” he mouths to him, heart fluttering in his chest.

Minutely, Tommy shakes his head, but taps his lips again, reinforcing the point. Jon taps his lips too and then looks down at the outline again before he can blush.

Lovett's voice is loud as he interrupts the moment, saying, “Elijah, as the driving force behind this media conglomerate - the star power, if you will - it often falls to me to create the content that the people want. And I'm feeling right now that the people want Pundit, my sweet angelic little girl here, taking a nap quietly.” At the sound of her name, Pundit’s head raises, but sensing that she's not getting a treat, she flops back down against the couch, dozing again.

The video features all of them exaggeratedly not making any noise and Lovett holds up a scribbled down sign that says, “Pundit Is An Angel” before it pans to her taking a nap. It is good content, Jon knows, even if that line is becoming slightly tired from the repetition. Still, he meets Tommy’s eyes and gives a little shrug, not exactly sure what Lovett's aim is.

Lovett huffs when he sees the interaction and goes back to staring at his computer, occasionally scribbling things down on his note cards for his next tour date. Lunch rolls around and Jon leans on Lovett’s desk, “I’m headed to Sweetgreens, you want something?”

“Kind of you to remember me,” he starts, testy, and it’s only with considerable effort that Jon doesn’t roll his eyes, “but I’ll pass.” The tap of the keys on Lovett’s laptop - hard and staccato - indicates his annoyance and Jon sighs, heading out.

He gets Lovett something despite him saying no, because his bad mood will only worsen if he doesn’t eat lunch and he’d only refused to be petty anyway. Salads in tow, he heads back to the office, taking the long way in order to pass by the Dunkin’ Donuts for coffee instead of the Starbucks. It’s purely impulsive, but the look on Tommy’s face - delighted and smiling, like he’s making some grand gesture - is definitely worth it.

Even Lovett in his sour mood looks grateful for it, though he does make an effort not to let it show, turning in his chair and pretending to be busy. But Jon sees the way his face softens when he hands the food over, sees it when Lovett realizes that Jon had gotten his favorites.

The afternoon goes by oddly, Jon feeling as though time is dragging on yet getting startled at the hours passing. Not a lot of progress gets made on his outline even though he’s supposed to be going over it with Dan early the next day and Jon types ‘sorry Dan’ at the bottom of it before exiting out of the document, rubbing his eyes as he leans back in the chair. He almost hopes that some huge news will break between now and when they record on Thursday to make this outline irrelevant.

He looks over at Tommy as they walk out of the building together, bags slung over their shoulders and Jon is hit with the familiarity of this moment: the two of them, side by side, walking in step with each other. At the Senate office, at the White House, at Crooked Media. They've been so close for so long.

Now, he reaches out and takes his hand. “You want to come over for dinner tonight?” They haven't been apart since yesterday and Jon finds he really doesn't want to be away from Tommy for very long, not when this is all so new.

The expression on Tommy’s face lets him know that there's nothing subtle about Jon’s request and he simply squeezes Tommy’s hand, knocking their shoulders together, not caring at all. “Yeah, of course.”

They hop into the car and Tommy looks over, whispers conspiratorially, “Should I bother pretending I’m not spending the night? Or should I just pack a bag at my place?”

Jon shakes his head in fond mock-exasperation, trying hard not to smile. “Dick,” he murmurs, but the affection is obvious in his voice. “Pack a bag.”

Delight flashes in Tommy’s eyes and he drives them to his place first to grab some clothes before swinging back around to Jon’s house. Lovett has Pundit out in the yard and is watching them with an inscrutable expression, his eyes linger on the bag in Tommy’s hand before calling Pundit over and walking her inside, not acknowledging them further. Jon sighs and keeps watching Lovett’s house for a moment before swallowing and shaking his head, putting it out of mind for now.

Once the door closes behind them, Jon kisses Tommy, soft and sweet. Tommy may only be an inch or so taller than him, but Jon has never had to tilt his face up to kiss someone before, and the novelty of it sends a thrill through him each time. He takes his bag out of his hands, drops it at the base of the stairs. “Come on, Vietor. I promised you a dinner.”

“Are you trying to get me to believe that there are actually groceries in your kitchen?” Tommy’s voice clearly indicates that he isn’t convinced of that at all. “Like, food that you bought at the store? And not just various containers with Postmates leftovers?”  

Perhaps Jon shouldn’t think that’s as funny as he does, but the perfect amount of bitchiness and humor in Tommy’s voice and the obvious allusion to how well they know each other makes it hilarious. Also funny is the look on Tommy’s face when Jon opens his fridge and takes out a Blue Apron kit. “So, not quite from the store, but I think you’ll agree this does count as groceries.”  

“I _could_ argue that this technically does count as delivery,” Jon gasps in faux outrage at that, “but I won’t because I’m actually impressed.”

Tommy takes the food out of Jon’s hands, finds the recipe sheet with ease, and starts taking out everything they’ll need. Jon can’t help but marvel at the easy way that Tommy’s moving around his kitchen, as though he feels right at home here. He’s startled out of his reverie when Tommy kisses him on the forehead, “As much as I’m enjoying you standing around and looking pretty, Favreau, get to work.”

He hands Jon the vegetables and a knife that he doesn’t remember ever buying for himself, let alone using. But he takes out a cutting board and gets to work, doing the prep while Tommy does the actual cooking. _It’s very domestic_ , Jon thinks, and it sends warmth radiating through his chest, picturing them doing this down the road, simple and easy and together.

Fuck, he’s getting sappy over chopping vegetables.

“Tom,” he says, but he doesn’t have anything to say, just wants Tommy to look at him, wants Tommy to be able to see the way he’s feeling playing out across his face. Whatever Tommy does see when he looks up at him, it makes him draw in a deep breath with wide eyes. He pauses in whatever it is that he’s doing - sautéeing or searing or whatever it is - to kiss Jon and he bites his lip after, so gently pleased.

An ache grows in Jon's chest at that. He's going to hold nothing back from Tommy until he accepts being loved - being loved by Jon - as an incontrovertible fact rather than a breathless revelation.

He wants to turn the stovetop off, wants to wrap his hands around Tommy’s shoulders, lead him up to his bedroom except that he also - doesn’t. He doesn’t want to do that because they’re making dinner together and if he interrupts this, he won’t get to see Tommy sitting across from him in the soft light of his kitchen. He won’t hear whatever stories Tommy is going to tell him about his upcoming pod and the people he’s trying to get to talk to him until he suddenly stops and insists that they quit talking about work at the dinner table. Jon wants all that in this moment more than he wants to - to get off. Which is appallingly domestic but Jon is getting the feeling that this is just who he is now. Now that he has Tommy.

“I suppose,” Tommy says, interrupting Jon from his thoughts in a fond, teasing voice, “that it might be too much to ask for you to have wine that goes with this?”

“Hey now,” Jon protests, a hand on his chest as though actually offended, “I have a bottle of white wine.”

Smugness radiates from Tommy as he asks, “Uh huh, and what type is it?”

Jon opens his fridge to check as Tommy laughs behind him, plucking it out of his hands. “An unoaked Chardonnay, Jon. How _basic_.” Tommy tuts at him, but he also kisses Jon’s forehead and gets them both wine glasses, so apparently it isn’t a bad choice. He sniffs the glass when Tommy does even though wine only ever smells of two things - grapes and alcohol - and he's never pretended otherwise and he can see Tommy laughing at him from behind the rim of his own glass.

“You don't need to act like you have opinions about wine to impress me on our first date, Favs.” The mockery is obvious in Tommy's voice, but the bright amusement in his eyes has it landing kinder than his tone would imply.

“Is it?” Jon asks breathlessly, brain stuck on that. Tommy tilts his head and he clarifies, suddenly shy, “Our first date?”

Tommy opens his mouth and then shuts it again, a stunned expression on his face, as though he hadn't even considered whether that were true before he said it. It softens into something unbearably adoring and his voice is just as gentle as he says, “Yeah, it is, isn't it?” They’re sitting at his table, eating a meal that they prepared themselves, and they’re on a first _date_.

It seems so odd that this would be true - he’s loved Tommy for so long, they’ve been so endlessly intertwined throughout everything. It’s odd to think of them sitting in his kitchen, the way they have so many times before, as a first. Years have passed since Jon’s had any sort of firsts in his relationship with Tommy and he feels almost giddy now at the prospect of having more now that they’re - dating.

Jon reaches out to hold Tommy’s hand and can’t hold back his laugh as Tommy raises his eyebrows, “So this is the Favreau charm offensive, huh? Holding my hand as we eat? Are you also gonna compliment my eyes? Tell me how fascinating my story about my day was? Casually mention you used to work at the _White House_?”

Shaking his head, Jon struggles to keep his face neutral but can tell he’s failing miserably at not showing how delighted he is, laughter bubbling over. “Oh my fucking god,” he shakes his head, voice warm, “you're such a jerk.” He squeezes his hand, though, and doesn't let it go. “Is that any way to speak to someone on the first date?”

“I know you, Favs,” Tommy insists, “I don't have to be polite. You like it better when I'm not.”

Warmth suffuses his cheeks and he knows he's blushing. “Yeah, you do know me.” It's so sappy that Jon pulls a face as soon as he says it but Tommy looks so affected that he doesn't try to walk it back.

Somehow the sun has set and the bottle of wine has been finished between them before Jon and Tommy move to the couch. Everything feels soft and slow, Jon slightly tipsy as he leans into Tommy, aimlessly scrolling through the channels. He settles on a baseball game - it isn't the Red Sox so he doesn't care - and scrolls through Twitter, constantly aware of Tommy beside him.

It isn't all that different from the other times that they've spent the evening together, just existing in each other's space, except for the ease he feels. He hadn't thought - even when he'd let himself - that being with Tommy could be so simple. That he could let himself love him and that taking down the barriers he'd built to keep it all inside over the years would feel as natural as breathing. This requiescence feels like everything he's been waiting for.

It isn't that different. Except that it is. Jon turns his head absently and kisses Tommy’s arm where it's under his mouth and he thinks about crafting a scathing reply to a terrible take he sees on Twitter but he doesn't have the energy to be appropriately bitchy online when he could kiss Tommy instead.

“Jon,” Tommy breathes out his name like a benediction against his lips and he cuts him off with another kiss. They don't break apart until Jon has run out of air in his lungs, buries his face in Tommy’s shoulder, taking deep shuddering breaths. His hands have curled into fists in Tommy’s shirt and he lets them go, opening his palms over his expanse of his back.

A buzzing from Tommy’s phone on the coffee table in front of them - he must have put it down while they were kissing, Jon’s phone is lost somewhere to the couch cushions - startles them both and Tommy just scoffs and dismissed whatever notification it was. “Who is it?” Jon asks, “Or is it just some random Twitter thing?”

“Nah, it’s just an app I set up that tells me when I’m supposed to go to bed if I want to feel well-rested in the morning. So, mostly, it’s an app that sends me a notification that I ignore every night.” Tommy sets his phone back down on the table, flicks his eyes up to the baseball game - Dodgers vs. Brewers, so Jon cares even less than he thought he did - and then back over at Jon.

There’s a delighted look on his face, as though he’s watching something incredibly entertaining, even though Jon has simply been digging through the crack in between the cushions of his couch to find his phone. He checks the time himself and even though it’s not late by their usual standards, and certainly not late by White House standards, he sees the way Tommy yawns out of the corner of his eye.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” Jon shuts off the television, makes sure his laptop is plugged in, “Come on, Vietor. Off to bed we go.”

They stand up and Jon pecks him on the lips once more before heading over to the stairs, picking up the bag Tommy dropped there when they’d first arrived.

“And now you’re carrying my bag for me? What a gentleman. Very impressive first date behavior, I must say.”

The bit from before is back and Jon laughs again, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly. “Uh huh, sure thing,” his voice is sardonic and he starts lilting to one side dramatically as if Tommy’s bag is the heaviest thing he’s ever tried to carry. The silliness makes him laugh and they’re still on the stairs so he stumbles a bit with his next step. Tommy’s hand on his back steadies him. Leaning into his touch, Jon pretends to swoon to disguise the way he really, truly feels a giddiness building in his chest. “My _hero_ ,” he drawls, fawning in his arms, batting his eyelashes exaggeratedly.

“Just keep going up the stairs,” Tommy says, pushing on Jon’s back where his hand is still pressed against him - and god, Tommy’s hand feels so big against his back, covers so much of him - and Jon keeps going but he feels his hand linger until they’re outside his room. Without a single hesitation, Jon lets him in, tossing Tommy’s bag onto the bed.

“I’m gonna shower,” he says, pausing for just a second, overcome by a bizarre urge to fuss over whether Tommy needs anything, as though he doesn’t know his way around Jon’s house, as though Tommy isn’t already aware that there’s nothing of Jon’s that he can’t have for himself.

Tommy hums absently, pulling out some sweatpants and an old t-shirt to sleep in, and Jon bites back his comment about the fact that he folded them before packing even though they’re pajamas and the only person who’s going to see them is Jon. But Tommy looks up and a challenging expression plays across his face, daring Jon to say it. Instead, he just winks and Tommy shakes his head. Jon is still smiling when he walks into the bathroom, when he steps under the shower spray, when he towels himself dry.

He hadn’t thought to bring pajamas into the bathroom with him but doesn’t bother making an attempt to cover himself as he walks over to his dresser, pulls out a soft, worn t-shirt and his boxers. When he looks up, Tommy is watching him, the book he’s reading sitting open but not read. There’s a question in the way Tommy has his eyebrows raised, in the way his eyes trail over Jon’s body. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to imply with that expression, but I don’t put out on the first date.”

Amused incredulousness lines Tommy’s face as nods, pretends that he’s truly being corrected, that that’s ever a policy Jon has had. “My mistake, I wasn’t aware of your commitment to chastity.” Soft laughter leaves him as he picks his book back up, and Jon watches him read for a second before Tommy looks up, catching him. Jon pulls his pajamas on, tucks himself into bed next to Tommy, sneaking a glance at the book he’s reading.

“Ah, an analysis on the rise and appeal of fascism. What a charming bedtime story, very relaxing, I’m sure.”

Tommy rolls his eyes, but puts his bookmark in the page he’s on - he refuses to dog-ear his pages, hates that it doesn’t look neat afterward - and puts it on the nightstand where he’s charging his phone.

Jon bundles himself in the sheets, rolls so that his head is pillowed on Tommy’s arm. “I’m gonna lose feeling in my arm like that real quick,” he complains and Jon groans in displeasure, scooting a bit down the bed to rest his head on Tommy’s chest instead. He has to lay at a bit of a diagonal to keep his feet from dangling off the end of the bed, but it works.

When Tommy presses a soft kiss to the top of his head, Jon hums in contentment, shifting one last time to make his legs more comfortable before shutting his eyes. “G’night, Tom.”

“Good night, Jon.”

* * *

_Jon had been used to seeing Tommy looking tired on the campaign trail. Too many nights of too little sleep wears you down and Jon had learned to see the telltale signs of exhaustion creeping into his expression._

_Obama had placed Tommy on the National Security Council and for days and weeks after, Tommy had glowed with a quiet pride that he’d earned that level of trust. Tommy didn’t care about the access to government secrets so much as he cared about the faith Obama put in him to keep them. He’d filled out more clearance paperwork and was questioned by the FBI again and got Top Secret clearance and he’d teased Jon about being jealous._

_And slightly, Jon had been. The NSC has no need for a speechwriter, obviously, but it had been about being a part of a group that knew about what was going on before everyone else did, if anyone else even found out at all. Jon had been fretting about jokes for the White House Correspondents’ Dinner and Tommy had been being read into the assassination of Osama bin Laden._

_But Jon isn’t jealous at all anymore. Whatever secrets Tommy knows, Jon doesn’t want to have them._

_Because Tommy doesn’t sleep anymore._

_The rings around his eyes are more pronounced than they were on the campaign trial and he looks paler than he ever has. His affect goes flat sometimes and it unsettles Jon to see Tommy, so expressive and funny, look so blank._

_Jon worries for him, seeing the way he’s grinding himself down to nothing under the weight of this new job. He doesn’t want to have the knowledge Tommy has; he wishes Tommy didn’t have it either._

_Jon makes his way to Tommy’s office, watches him flip through reports for a minute before rounding the desk to step into his space, placing a hand on his shoulder to get his attention. Tommy, very briefly, flinches._

_“You good?” Jon asks, even though it’s obvious in the hunted look in Tommy’s eyes and the terse line of his mouth that he certainly isn’t._

_“Yeah, dude, just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.” Jon can feel Tommy’s shoulder rise under his hand as he breathes in deep, lets it out slowly._

_“When was the last time you went out?”_

_Tommy’s eyes drop to the desk and Jon knows he understands what he’s asking. “It’s been a while. I don’t - I never have the time and even when I do, I’m…”_

_Tommy’s gesture encompasses all of him and Jon can read what he’s referencing: his fatigue, his anxiety, his secrecy. Tommy’s hand shakes as he moves to pick up the pen he’d dropped when he flinched and Jon can tell he doesn’t even notice. “You know how it is.”_

_Jon does not know how it is. And he doesn’t want to either._

_“You need to get some rest, Tommy.” Before he’s even finished speaking, Tommy is shaking his head obstinately. “Yes, you do.”_

_“This report,” he protests, grabbing the file in front of him, bringing it to the edge of his desk as though the issue is over._

_“How much of it have you actually absorbed, Tommy? Or have you been reading the same few paragraphs again and again because they won’t stick?” The flash of frustration that plays across Tommy’s features is the first real show of feeling this whole conversation and Jon knows he’s struck a nerve. He presses, “Obama didn’t put you on the council to have you run yourself into the ground. He did it because he knows what you can bring to this job - your dedication, your focus, your attention to detail.”_

_Jon lets the praise sink in for a second, “You can’t give that to him if you’re falling asleep on your files. Get some rest, do the job you need to do tomorrow with fresh eyes. The world won’t end tonight.”_

_Tommy looks like he’s about to protest again and Jon cuts him off, “You can’t save the world tonight, either.”_

_When Tommy deflates, dropping his pen to the desk, his eyes falling shut for a moment, Jon knows he’s won. “Yeah,” he says, rubbing his eyes, exhaustion bleeding through his demeanor, “alright.”_

_Jon watches Tommy blink himself awake a few times on the Metro and feels this overwhelming urge to hold him until he forgets whatever it is he sees when he closes his eyes that stops him from sleeping. With a hand on his elbow, Jon helps Tommy stand when they reach their stop, only letting go when he’s sure he won’t fall. The walk back to Jon’s apartment takes the same amount of time as it would to get to Tommy’s but Tommy shuffles along beside Jon all the way home._

_Only when they step inside does Tommy look around, as though realizing for the first time that he hasn’t gone back to his own place. It doesn’t ease Jon’s worry in the slightest. “I’ll grab some blankets and a pillow for you, just give me a second.”_

_Jon goes to his room and grabs his softest blanket, emblazoned with the Red Sox logo, a pillow too firm for him but that he knows Tommy will like, and frets about giving Tommy some pajamas to change into but bites the bullet and does it anyway. If Tommy doesn’t want to change, he doesn’t have to._

_He piles it all on together and heads back out to give it to Tommy on the couch, pours him a glass of water as well. Jon knows, distantly, that he’s hovering slightly. But he just wants to see Tommy get some rest._

_Jon debates a few times back and forth once he’s in bed about setting an alarm to check on Tommy, wondering if that’s too much. Still, he does it anyway. It takes him longer than usual to fall asleep, thinking of Tommy in the next room, how he’s running on empty these days and how Jon doesn’t know what to do to fix it._

_His phone vibrates under his pillow and he pads over to the door of his bedroom, ducking his head out to see if Tommy’s asleep. But Tommy is staring at the ceiling, eyes wide open in the dark._

_Catching Jon’s movement, he turns to look at him and Jon holds in a sigh. “Can’t sleep?” He asks in a casual tone, as though he’d come out here for any purpose other than to check on exactly this answer._

_Tommy shakes his head, eyes still fixed on a spot above him._

_Jon takes a deep breath, nodding to himself. “Do you wanna come to bed?” The question surprises him as much as it does Tommy. “It’s just, if you think you might - I don’t know, need some company? Sometimes it helps just not to be alone with your thoughts, you know?”_

_The look Tommy gives him makes Jon feel unsettled, as though he can read all the thoughts running through Jon’s mind, as though he might be able to see that Jon would hold Tommy every night if he could. He ducks his head and scratches the back of his neck, itchy sometimes now that he’s growing his hair back out, but more of a nervous habit than anything._

_The rustling of blankets gets Jon’s attention and he sees Tommy slowly gathering his things to bring into Jon’s bedroom. As he stands, Jon can see that Tommy is wearing his pajamas and pushes down all the thoughts that might come along with that observation. If he’s going to be sleeping next to Tommy, he needs not to be thinking those things._

_They climb into bed together and Jon stares up at the ceiling, wide awake with the feeling of warmth radiating from Tommy beside him. If he reached out a hand, he could touch his thigh. If he rolled over, he’d be able to see the profile of Tommy’s face in the low light of his bedroom. If he shifted just a little, he could press their legs against each other and say it was an accident. Jon wishes that these were the kind of thoughts that kept Tommy up at night instead of whatever it is that makes his eyes go flat and his jaw clench tight._

_He lies as still as he can, not wanting to disturb Tommy and not giving himself the opportunity to give into the impulse to brush against him._

_“Jon?” If he’d been asleep, he would have woken at Tommy’s whisper._

_“Yeah?”_

_“Can I- just- could…” Tommy’s clears his throat and then stops, never finishing the question. He lets out a sigh and before Jon has to prompt him to continue, he says, voice rushing through the words like he’s fighting to get them out before he changes his mind, “I think it would help more if I could hold you.”_

_Justifications tumble out of Tommy’s mouth. “You know, just that… holding someone, right, feeling that they’re there? Like, it’s more grounding? I don’t know, I don’t know. Forget it.” Tommy rolls over on his side, his back facing Jon now._

_Jon takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. Reaching out, he rests his hand on Tommy’s shoulder, feeling it too tense beneath him. “Yeah, Tommy. You can… you can hold me, if you want to.”_

_The moment feels delicate between them; they don’t make eye contact while they both move silently, ending up with Tommy curled up around Jon’s back, an arm slung over his waist. Spooning._

_“Is this better?” Jon asks, for want of anything else to say. It’s certainly better for him, far more relaxing than trying to lie still so as not to touch Tommy. Having this, Tommy wrapped around him, is much better._

_“Yeah,” Tommy’s voice sounds slightly unsteady and Jon wishes he knew why. “Yeah, it’s helping.”_

_“Good,” Jon says, meaning it. If it helps Tommy sleep, if it helps him feel settled, then he’s glad to do it. Sleep tugs at his eyes and Jon doesn’t try to fight it, not with Tommy warm and solid at his back._

_He listens to the way Tommy’s breaths start to even out, slower and deeper, but he knows from the small shuffling behind him that sleep is still evading him. Jon wishes he could help, but the haze of sleep makes it seem too hard to form any words, his mouth feeling dumb, his brain slow. There’s nothing important enough to disrupt how content he feels right now._

_“Jon?” Tommy whispers and he tries to find the energy to answer, to indicate that he’s still awake. That if Tommy needs anything, all he needs to do is ask. It doesn’t break through the heaviness of sleep that has settled into his bones. He hopes Tommy knows anyway. Trembling fingers brush through his hair and it feels nice, lulls Jon further toward unconsciousness._

_Tommy’s hand doesn’t stop the motion and with every pass of his fingers through his hair, more tension drains out of Jon. Something makes Tommy pause and if Jon had the energy, he’d protest but he doesn’t. He’s warm and tired and content. “Jon?” Tommy checks again that he’s asleep before resuming running his hand through his hair._

_When Tommy stops, Jon doesn’t know, already long asleep. But when he wakes, there’s a sound of soft snoring beside him and Jon feels lighter, knowing he managed to get Tommy to rest._

_The clock at his bedside reads 5:00 AM but Jon feels like he’s slept better than he has in years. Very regretfully he slides out of bed, trying not to disturb Tommy. He doesn’t get enough sleep; Jon can make some coffee and maybe shower before he needs to wake him. The dim sunlight through his blinds cast shadows on Tommy’s face and Jon’s chest feels tight, looking at him._

_He goes to set the coffeemaker before Tommy can catch him staring._

* * *

The rest of the week passes by not much differently: Trump does in fact do some insane bullshit that causes his previous outline for the Thursday pod to be irrelevant, Dan seems to understand the story better than Jon, so he lets him take the lead; at the end of the day, Tommy comes home with Jon or Jon goes home with him. A lot of the time, Jon works on his new podcast while Tommy reads book after book and makes call after call to get people onto Pod Save The World. Somehow even crawling into bed exhausted at two in the morning is better when Tommy is by his side.

But Lovett’s attitude seems to get worse and lunch and a coffee are clearly not solving the issue. Jon hates that he’s almost relieved that Lovett has tour dates this weekend but the glowering expressions and sullen silences and jokes that were too mean to really laugh at have worn him down. It makes him worry that he might truly not be okay with him and Tommy in a much deeper way than being surprised by it.

When he brings it up, lying on the couch on Saturday, Tommy looks at him with a cocky grin, says, “Up until this moment, I would have considered you the Lovett expert in this relationship.”

“What?” Jon’s surprise and confusion bleed through his tone, “No way, dude. He always goes to you when he actually wants to open up about something.”

“That’s not actually an indicator of - we aren’t turning this into a discussion about the various and often contradictory ways that Lovett shows affection.” Jon’s eyebrows raise at that, a teasing smile on his face, and he gives Tommy a knowing look. “Spare me, Favreau. He didn’t make any sense to me when I first met him, of course I’ve devoted time to figuring this out.”

Jon nods to acknowledge the point. Lovett can be hard to get to know, alternately throwing up walls and barriers in places you wouldn’t expect and having moments of almost brutal candor. Of course Tommy had started cataloguing him and his reactions to things. He would have simply had to know what made him tick, would have filed away the information he’d learned until he felt like he understood him.

“So what’s the issue?” Jon asks. “Why isn’t he happy for us?” The second question comes out more timid and sad than the first and Tommy kisses his forehead.

“He is.” Jon scoffs his disbelief but Tommy holds firm, holding Jon’s face between his hands. “He _is_.”

“Lovett is just worried about how he fits into the puzzle now, Jon. From his perspective, we’ve both been keeping a pretty relevant secret from him. And you know how much he hates feeling like he’s being excluded from things. Think about how he must be feeling. He doesn’t want to get left behind.”

Jon sees the truth in those words as soon as Tommy says them, feels them deflate the frustration that had been building in his chest at the way Lovett has been behaving lately. In its place rises a determination to make Lovett see just how wrong he is. His place - in Crooked Media, in their _lives_ \- is not precarious. He’s essential and Jon won’t let him believe for a minute otherwise.

An idea pops into his head and Jon sits up, placing a hand square on Tommy’s chest to help push him up. Tommy quirks an eyebrow at him but follows his lead, only asks what the plan is when they’ve entered Jon’s dining room. Jon hums at him as he searches through a stack of paper. With a triumphant grin, he hands what he was looking for to Tommy.

“This is an ad copy.” Tommy says flatly, not understanding. After a second though, comprehension dawns on his face and he looks over at Jon, impressed. “Alright,” he says, pulling out a chair, grabbing a pen, and waving at Jon to sit. “What are your edits?”

Jon and Tommy write and re-write all the ad copies they might need to get Lovett to see how little their feelings for him have changed. To see that he’s still their best friend, a necessary part of their lives. They keep fiddling with the writing, never quite satisfied with it all the way up to the morning Lovett comes back from tour. They do final run throughs together in the car as they pull up to the office.

Lovett looks wary as he enters Crooked HQ after a weekend away and while before Jon might have chalked it up to him not wanting to see the interaction between him and Tommy, he knows now that Lovett is searching for a sign - any little thing - that might indicate that his going away on tour had made him seem as though he might be an expendable piece, as though Jon and Tommy might have looked at each other while he was gone and, after all these years, decided that Lovett is of no use to them anymore.

Instead, what he sees is an office that looks as it always does, down to the scattered mess of detritus that Lovett leaves around. Jon beams at him when he walks through the door at 10:45, which is earlier than usual for him. “Busy day,” he says, waving an arm to gesture towards the television screens. “And we’ve got ads after the Pod today, too. Didn’t want to do them without you.”

It’s said with a casualness that Jon does not feel and that he’s sure the way he keeps his eyes on him to gauge his reaction belies. But Lovett does look a fraction less tense at it which Jon counts as a victory.

He sends out the outline - a good one this time, with details and potential time limits and sources - to both Tommy and Lovett, asks for their thoughts, asks if he’s missed something they want to make a point about. Lovett only puts in a small amount of comments and Jon incorporates all of them, wants him to see that nothing has changed here. Lovett is brilliant and bold and hilarious, one of his best friends. He needs him just as much, if not more, than Crooked does.

The taping of the Pod goes well, cycling through all the news that they can. The constant deluge makes it hard - they’d tried, in the beginning, to filter through some of the headlines to smaller stories, to actionable pieces - but as the Trump world only gets messier and messier and new stories come out seemingly multiple times a day that are all important, it’s hard. These days, they don’t even make it through all the headlines sometimes. Lovett is as precocious as ever, his jokes coming quick and keeping Tommy and Jon laughing through even the more serious segments.

“Sean Hannity looks like someone glued googly-eyes on a ham,” interrupts the recording for a few minutes before Tommy can make his point about the dangers of misinformation in the media without laughing his way through it. Neither of them are ever good at hiding how delighted they are with Lovett. They don’t try.

Tanya gives them the go-ahead to start recording the ads now that she’s passed out their cue cards. Jon bites back his satisfaction with his own plan because they haven’t even started which means he doesn’t know if it will work yet.

"ProFlowers. Do you have a best friend that you love a lot?" Jon starts, glancing over at Lovett to see him squint accusatorially at the ad copy he has - which does not say those words - before looking up, gaze flitting between Jon and Tommy before falling away, looking mutinous.   
  
"Is that friend the star of your company? The force behind your burgeoning media empire? The funniest person in the room?" Tommy's voice is clear, reminds Jon to stay on task even in the face of this.   
  
"Send them some flowers!" He says, still in his ad reads voice, but he lets it drop a little bit when he continues, "Maybe you haven't been good enough about reminding them just how important they are to you. Maybe you need to make sure they'll never forget it." Lovett hasn’t quite turned to face them again, but he is bouncing his left leg much quicker than usual and is fiddling with the cards in his hand. Physically moving to help him deal with containing his emotions.   
  
"We here at Crooked Media are very understanding folk," Tommy continues, "We know that change can be scary. We get that." Jon is glad that Lovett is sitting in between them, that he can’t hide himself from their view. They’re coming at him on two fronts, nowhere for him to turn that isn’t them and how much they care about him.   
  
So Lovett isn't looking at either of them, but Jon can still see the emotion welling on his face and he reaches out, covers Lovett's hand with his own. "ProFlowers," he says, "for showing your friends that you love them."   
  
Silence holds for a few seconds after that before Lovett replies in a tone that's aiming for haughty and misses because of the tears, "As you should. I’m indispensable."   
  
“Yeah, Lo, you really are.” Relief sweeps through Jon and he gets out of his chair to give Lovett a hug. He only tolerates it for a few seconds before he nudges Jon’s shoulder to back him up.

"I'm sorry, too," he whispers. "I am happy for you guys, I promise."

* * *

_Tommy and Lovett’s apartment looks weird without all of Lovett’s stuff everywhere, without the explosion of knick-knacks and video games and crumpled papers that he leaves in his wake. All his stuff is in boxes, ready for his move the next day._

_Jon sits on the floor, head leaning back against the couch that they all could be sitting on, really, if not for the fact that Lovett had stacked some of his boxes on it. It’s odd to think about going into the White House tomorrow, knowing that Lovett isn’t going to show up._

_“Stop hopelessly pining over me before I’ve even left, Favreau.” Lovett is rolling his eyes as he walks into the room from the kitchen, holding two beers and a Diet Coke in his hand._

_Jon reaches out and takes the beer from Lovett, cracking it open, making a face as he gets his first taste._   
_  
_“That’s what you get for thinking that Lovett might have good beer, Favs,” Tommy pipes up from where he is on the couch, having claimed it  for his own since he lives in this apartment. Jon hadn’t been able to argue with that logic. It is Tommy’s couch. He probably could have claimed that he should get the couch since he’s the guest, but he knows that Tommy is tired. The floor is fine.  

_“This is your place, too,” Jon points out, setting the beer down far enough away that he won’t knock it over or be tempted to have another sip. “I thought you might have rescued the quality of the beer experience here.”_

_“Jon, how dare you insinuate such a thing about our Tommy?” Lovett places his hand on his chest dramatically. “He’s far too blueblooded to stoop to drinking beer.”_

_Tommy’s shoulders shake as he’s trying not laugh already at whatever bit Lovett is starting. “He drinks only the finest of wines! The finest of brandies! The finest of- of…” Lovett casts around presumably for an alcohol he thinks of as fancy. “The finest of cognacs!”_

_“Cognacs are a type of brandy,” Tommy says, fully aware that he’s playing right into this._

_Lovett looks like he’s about to keep rolling with it, then stops. “Wait, really?”_

_Tommy nods. “Cognacs are a brandy specifically made in the Cognac region of France.”_

_“I thought that was champagne.” Jon is pretty sure that he’s right._

_“Why would they make champagne in Cognac?”_

_Jon takes the pillow he’s sitting on out from under him and whacks it at Tommy, laughing. Tommy gasps in mock indignation and grabs another one of the couch pillows, hitting back at him. In trying to dodge his hit, Jon knocks into the can of beer he’d set aside, spilling in on himself and on the floor._

_“Oh shit, sorry, dude,” Tommy says, as Jon peels his shirt off, now wet with beer._

_“Very nice of you to try to seduce me by showing me your abs, Favs, but I’m afraid it’s just too little too late,” Lovett sighs, shaking his head with his hand over his heart. “You’ll have to settle for poor Tommy over here. I know he looks like a pair of Vineyard Vines pastel shorts made a wish to become a real boy, but he’ll have to do. I’m moving to LA, you know. I’m going to be a Hollywood screenwriter.”_

_“You’re going to be the best Hollywood screenwriter there is,” Jon replies automatically._

_“I know, but thanks,” Lovett says. “Though do try not to break Tommy’s heart with your philandering ways, Favreau. He might look like your garden variety WASP, but underneath the exterior carefully crafted to look like a sailboat fucked a country club, he’s tenderly composing poems about the sea, or something.”_

_Tommy is pink from laughing, and Jon hopes his laughter seems as normal and natural as Tommy’s does._

_“You know, Jon did touch my shoulder three days ago, Lovett, so we’re practically dating already. I’m halfway through my sonnet about him.”_

_Lovett laughs in delight, always thrilled when Tommy indulges him in a bit. “You see, Jon? You gotta be careful with him.”_

_“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I spill beer on myself,” Jon says, amazed at how completely casual he managed to sound._

_Had he touched Tommy’s shoulder a few days ago? Jon tries to remember. It’s possible, it’s definitely possible. But if he had, then- is Tommy keeping track of when they touch? Does Tommy notice when it happens, enough to remember it like this?_

_He might be joking. Tommy may have simply said that to play along with Lovett. Maybe he hadn’t touched him._

_Jon’s focus wavers from the conversation going on between Lovett and Tommy, thinking through the times that he remembers touching him that week. There’s always- he always has to have a reason, is the thing. Jon can’t let himself just- just touch Tommy with no reason whatsoever._

_If he allowed that, he might not stop. He would touch Tommy again and again. Little brushes of their hands when they get coffee, a hand on his upper arm when they talk. Jon always kills those impulses._

_It would be nice to touch Tommy, he thinks. Tommy would blush red, like he does so easily, looking down at Jon with his blue eyes. If Jon touched him, Tommy would- Tommy would…_

_“Earth to Favreau,” Lovett interrupts the fantasy, and Jon is glad for it. Tommy is sitting right beside him. “What’s up with you right now?”_

_Jon takes a deep breath, and looks at Lovett. “I’m really gonna miss you, that’s all.”_

_It’s true. Jon will miss Lovett fiercely._

_“As you should.”_

_Jon goes home that night and has a good beer, and resolutely does not think about touching Tommy, or the way that Tommy might react to being touched. He doesn’t._

_Going to work the next morning feels off, and Jon misses Lovett already. He wouldn’t even usually be in this early, so Jon isn’t sure how that’s possible, but he does. Lovett won’t be coming in late, wearing sweatpants, or riding on his ridiculous scooter any more. He won’t take panic naps under his desk when deadlines are looming and nothing is done. He won’t make terrible, all-night sessions drafting the State of the Union bearable._

_Lovett doesn’t work here anymore._

_A knock on his door startles him out of his reverie, and he sees Tommy smiling softly at him. “Thought you might be like this today,” he says, sliding a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee across his desk at him._

_“Like what?” Jon’s curious what Tommy sees._

_“You hate change, Jon. You look like you’re in mourning.” Jon takes a gulp of his coffee, smiling for the first time that morning when it’s exactly the way he likes it._

_“I’m really gonna miss him, Tom.” Jon’s not sure why it feels like such a confession, when he’s been pretty open about how much he’ll be bereft without Lovett’s presence here in the White House. Perhaps it’s because he’s currently missing him, the emotions real and here._

_“I know. Things will go back to normal eventually Jon, I promise.”_

* * *

It amazes Jon constantly how easily, how quickly being with Tommy has become the new normal of his life. Tommy’s life had always been so deeply intertwined with his own; taking this next step feels so natural now that it’s happened.

When Tommy comes with him to the grocery store, he already knows Jon’s favorite foods. When he comes over, he already knows Jon’s house like the back of his hand. Tommy already knows his dog, and his friends, and his parents. Jon already feels like he can’t remember a time when he and Tommy weren’t just like this. It’s only been a few weeks, but being with Tommy fully has only highlighted to Jon just how wrapped up in him he was before they got together.

Perhaps this was always going to happen between them. Perhaps this was something inevitable. No matter how long it took, or the twists and turns the road took along the way, it was always going to be Jon and Tommy, together.

Jon likes that idea.

He’s thinking about it as the two of them are wrapped around each other on the couch, crashing there after recording a pod, keeping up with the news on Twitter. So simple, but it means so much. Where Tommy used to be beside him, they’re now touching, resting on each other.

Jon can feel Tommy’s eyes on him, and when he  looks up, Tommy's regarding him with searching expression, as though he's trying to find some sort of answer.   
  
Jon looks at him, quirking an eyebrow, asking without words what Tommy wants to know. But Tommy just counters with another funny look on his face and soon enough the two of them are collapsed on top of each other laughing on the the couch at the silly faces they're making.

Jon leans back to make another face at Tommy, and ends up toppling off the couch, laughing even harder when he crashes to the floor gracelessly.

“Oh my god,” Tommy gasps for air in between bursts of laughter, cheeks turning pink from delight.

With a mischievous smile on his face, Jon reaches up and tugs Tommy down to the floor with him, causing him to come crashing down on top of him. More laughter rings out, and Jon is struck again with the disbelief that this was ever something that he was afraid of.

Once their breathing evens out, Jon looks over at Tommy and asks, "What is it?" knowing he'll pick the thread back up.   
  
Tommy takes a deep breath, but doesn't doesn't look anxious before he responds. "You haven't - you haven't tried to touch me yet." A fierce blush rises up Jon's cheeks. "And I know you, I know that's not... how it usually is. I just don't know why."   
  
Jon's first instinct is to reassure Tommy that he wants him, to kiss him so soundly he'd never question it. But there's something settled in Tommy's eyes. He already knows that. He doesn't have any doubts that Jon wants him.

Good. That isn’t in question. Jon does want Tommy, very much so.   
  
"When I was younger," Jon begins and Tommy raises his eyebrows at him the way he always does when he talks like he's somehow very old now, "that was - that was what was important to me. That was what I wanted. I haven't touched you because... I need you to be sure that I'm different now. I need you to be sure that I want so much more from you - everything you could possibly give, Tommy. I - This -" Jon gestures to the space in between them, sweeps his arm out to encompass everything - "is what's important to me now."

Tommy nods sagely. “Lying on the floor is important to me, too.”

Jon cracks up again, shoving at Tommy’s shoulders. “No, you dick,” he says through his laughter, sounding hopelessly fond.

Tommy schools his expression into something more serious. “Thank you, Jon.” He leans over to kiss Jon’s nose, just to watch it crinkle. “That means,” the emotion Jon expected is now coming through clearly in Tommy’s voice. “That means a lot to me. That you would keep proving how much you’re in this, to me.”

Jon can’t help but kiss Tommy at that. Kissing Tommy is incredible, amazing. Jon doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of it, his whole life long. “I want to do this right,” he mumbles against Tommy’s lips, not willing to draw back far enough to separate from him. “I want to do this right,” he repeats.

“You are,” Tommy assures him. “I didn’t think it would be so…” He trails off, but Jon knows exactly what he means, can see the awe at the way things are in his eyes.

They’re still on the floor, and maybe Jon isn’t as young as he used to be, because it’s starting to be a little bit uncomfortable already. So he rolls over and lays on top of Tommy, smiling down at him.

“Is this more comfortable?” Tommy raises his eyebrows, looking at him amusedly.

“Of course it is.” Jon shifts to get himself even more comfortable, resting his head on Tommy’s chest.

“We could always get up and get back on the couch, you know.” Tommy runs his hand through Jon’s hair, not seeming to be in any rush to move despite his words.

“Nah, I just made myself comfy here.” Jon leans up, and kisses the underside of Tommy’s jaw.

Tommy’s hand twitches in his hair just slightly, but enough for Jon to notice. “What?”

“Nothing,” Tommy says, kissing Jon quickly. “Felt nice, is all.”

The sun is starting to set through the drapes covering the windows, bathing them in a soft, worm light. It’s astounding, the way that Jon can be surprised by how beautiful Tommy is. He’s known him so long, looked at him nearly every day for well over a decade now.

Somehow, Tommy can still make his breath catch in his throat, can still make him speechless. Perhaps that’s just Jon’s life now, being struck breathless by Tommy in simple, quiet moments.

Jon is okay with that.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me @ tvietor08 on tumblr


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